Infusion
by Candy Von Schweetz
Summary: Continues after Assassin's Creed III. Slight ConWash. Washington's about to fall off the deep end when the British send someone to kill him. And to make matters worse, the Apple seems to have mated with him. Rated T for blood, violence, and suicidal thoughts. Expected to be novel-length.
1. The Deep End

**Hello, readers! This is my first Assassin's Creed fanfic. To be honest, I have always told myself I could not write in this fandom. I did not think it would be good writing. But now that I have written something, I realized that it's not half bad, and I hope you all think so too. Please feel free to review! I'd like to get some feedback to know if I'm any good at this. This has been spell-checked and grammar-checked (Courtesy of moi), so it should be easy on the eyes. Anyways, happy reading!**

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><p>In the middle of winter, the clouds were forming a puffy, dark dome over the sky as the wind raged harder. Snow blanketed everything and anything that would bear its weight. A mixture of sleet and snow whipped at any exposed skin, and the trees were close to uprooting. One could hardly see 5 inches in front of them.<p>

And despite the uninhabitable conditions, somehow Washington's troops managed to sustain themselves out in this bleak, barren wasteland- Though they were barely hanging on.

Quite a few of the men had already succumbed to the sharp, unforgiving clutches of frostbite- some losing an ear or finger, some their lives. Every soul that passed from the world tore a hole in the Commander's heart. Of course, outwardly he was calm, and disturbingly-unreadable. He had to keep the men's hopes up, of none of them would survive this never-ending, god-forsaken winter. The fort was eerily silent, the only sound being the howling gales ravaging and carrying away anything that wasn't nailed down. No one was about, for the weather was too treacherous.

-Except one man, standing near the outskirts of the clearing, by the edge of the woods.

Snow had begun building up in his garments, packing down into ice. The wind bit and grazed his face, and his fingers were purple, but he didn't dare move. After awhile, he stopped feeling the cold, sharp pain, and he sighed, gaze unblinking as his breath danced in front of him.

Slowly, he withered, allowing his calm façade to drop and shatter into a million pieces before him like broken glass, a discarded mask. If the men were to see him like this, they'd remove him from position, labeling him "mad, depressed and unfit to continue his work."

Well, when he thought about it, that's what he was. He was becoming a ghost of his former-self.

His faded, blue eyes glazed over as he lie down in the snow, already at least a foot deep and still collecting. He could lay like this forever, he thought, here with the freezing, white nothing around him like a silk cocoon, his only company the fierce, screaming wind. Here, he felt no pain, all his thoughts simply melted away, and his stress eased a bit, allowing him to be oblivious.

His face and limbs had numbed by now, his fingers a much darker color than before, but it didn't really bother the weary commander. He'd freeze to death if it meant saving the lives of his men, himself being rather undeserving of life, he thought. After all the pain they'd all been through, it wouldn't be so terrible to just lie down and sleep for eternity.

He sighed again, this time relishing in the crisp, icy air. It would be so easy to slip away right now, free of worries, into the white light. No one would miss him, anyway- his family, even his wife and children, had either died or been murdered already. He was just a pawn in a knight's armor; yet another means to an end, like the thousands of dying and already-dead men who'd believed in the cause as much as him. When this war finally ended, maybe he could rest. for now, he was content with a few, short breaks every once-in-a-while.

The snow had given the commander a nice camouflage, caking him in white. He'd be less noticeable this way. He couldn't risk being seen out here.

Finally, after another while, he stood, legs stiff from the low temperatures. He made to return to his tent-

-When suddenly, his left thigh exploded with a vivid pain. He couldn't keep from crying out as another ripple tore through his side and left shoulder, frantically pulling up his mask in an attempt as self-preservation. His auditory senses were seized by dizzying, loud ringing as he was shot down. His legs gave way beneath him, sending him into the snow with a hard thud, his head hitting a patch of ice with a crack. A horrible, sickening, crunching pain jolted through his wounded side like electricity, and he gasped like a fish out of water, seeing stars.

Fumbling for his pistol, which had slipped off and skidded a couple feet away, he found his hand crushed by a boot. Glancing up at his attacker, the commander couldn't recognize the man's face, but his red coat was enough to give away who he was.

His assailant snatched the other pistol from the snow, and cocked it, raising it alongside his own firearm, preparing for the final blow.

Washington could do nothing but stare into the man's eyes and wait for the end. There came a gunshot, but not from the man before him.

Then, without warning, the Redcoat crumpled to the ground, accidentally firing, and the bullet embedding itself into Washington's arm. Blood flowed freely from the British soldier's head, seeping into the snow and tainting it. Soon, crunching footsteps sounded as a new pair of boots sprinted toward him.

Washington looked to meet Connor's eyes, full of worry and fear, things that rarely passed across them.

"C- Connor.." Washington stuttered, before sputtering, hacking as his throat constricted, going into shock. Gazing briefly at his wounds, blood could be seen pouring seemingly from everywhere. It had spread so much that his cape and coat were soaked in red.

The commander reached a shaking hand up to Connor, his savior, before falling limp, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

Connor hauled up Washington's too-light body as gently as he could, and rushed as quickly as possible up the hill and into the infirmary tents.

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><p>"We need a doctor! The commander's been shot!" Connor exclaimed, holding Washington in his arms, who was practically gushing blood, and as pale as the snow.<p>

That was enough to send all of the men into chaos.

A middle-aged man with graying sideburns rushed up to him, leading him into one of the adjoining, private tents. Inside, it was dark, but warm, with two plain cots against the back wall and an operation table opposite that. Connor placed the commander on the table, checking to make sure he was still breathing.

Barely, but he was. He was fading fast.

The doctor who'd led him here immediately set to work. "We need to get these bullets out. I need a scalpel, bandages, a bottle of alcohol, needle, thread, and a wet wash cloth. There's no time to lose." Connor procured said items and the operation was underway.

Examining the commander's body, the doctor frowned. "It looks like none of his vital organs were damaged, and no bones were shattered, but he's got some torn muscle. He's unconscious, so he won't feel the pain, at least. Help me get his clothes off." First the cape went, then the coat, waistcoat, and boots. Now down to his trousers and blouse, the doctor parted the buttons to take in the three bullet wounds on Washington's torso, as well as the one on his leg. Grimacing, he murmured, "Alcohol and scalpel."

The doctor pried the bullets from the commander's shoulder and arm, the ones in his side and thigh having gone clean through. He then proceeded to clean the wounds with the alcohol, stitch them, and tightly wrap them in bandages.

The ordeal over, and Washington still alive, the doctor wiped his hands on a cloth, relieved. "I've managed to stop the bleeding. He seems to be breathing slightly better."

Connor nodded, having been silent during the entire episode.

"He'll need to remain in bed for an extended period of time to have any hope of getting better. He cannot, under any circumstances, exert himself, or his wounds will reopen and get infected."

Gazing over at Washington, Connor took in the sight of his friend, out cold on the bed. He'd never forget this image. It gave him a painful twinge where his heart was. There was no way he'd let Washington get hurt like this again. He couldn't lose the only friend he had.

"Will he live?"

The doctor set Connor with a grim face and steeled eyes. "There's not much else I can do for him. At this point... I'm afraid it's hard to tell. He's lost a lot of blood. It could go either way."

"What should we tell the men? You saw what state they were in back there."

"I'll tell them that Commander Washington is recovering and it looks as if it will be fine."

"And what should I do?"

"You should be here when he wakes up," The doctor spoke, eyeing Connor with a sincere gaze. "I know how much you mean to him, even if he doesn't know it. We'll know by morning whether or not this will take a turn for the worse_. But!_" he stated, pointing a finger up, "I will say this: The commander has had many life-threatening afflictions his whole life. He's always pulled through. I don't expect this to be any different."

"Thank you, Doctor-?"

"Princeton Evangelow," the doctor supplied.

"Connor Davenport," Connor replied, giving the doctor a firm handshake.

"Well met," Evangelow greeted. "I've got some fresh clothes and a few blankets for him, if you'd kindly help me move him over to the bed."

Connor helped Doctor Evangelow get George out of the rest of his bloody clothes, discarding them in a corner of the tent for the time being. Somehow, it looked as if the commander didn't have a fever. Voicing this, Evangelow checked, almost immediately rectracting his fingers from Washington's forehead in alarm. "He's ice cold. You said you found him outside, yes?"

"That is correct."

"Well, that would explain it. But the thing is that he shouldn't be _this cold_. He'd _have _to have been out for _at least _an hour- I've seen it before in frostbite victims. What the _hell_ was he _doing _out there? He could have gone and died, and no one would have _ever _found him!" Throwing his hands up in frustration, Evangelow sighed, running his hands through his hair. "That's the only explanation I have for it- and considering the unhealthy shade of his hands, he'd probably been out for far too long." Nothing more was said as they clothed the commander in clean clothes, tucking him in with a few blankets. Doctor Evangelow bid Connor adieu, and left him to his thoughts.

Dragging a chair to the Commander's bedside, Connor sat, waited, and promised himself he'd watch over him. He was not leaving until Washington awoke.

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><p>George cracked an eye open, instantly regretting it as the sunlight peeking through the tent's flaps nearly blinding him. <em>What time is it?<em> he wondered. Every part of his body felt stiff from his suspended animation. As soon as he tried to lift his head, pain throbbed in his temple. _I must have hit the ice hard._

Suddenly, like a switch, his memories of the attack rushed to the forefront of his mind, as well as the pain, slamming into him full-force, and he almost cried out, wincing. Staring with wide eyes at himself, he inspected the bandages wrapped around his left thigh and shoulder, right forearm(inside a worn, gray sling), and side. If he dared move anything, he'd set off all of them at once, like angry fires searing across his skin.

Slowly, George became aware of the other in the room. Slumped over in a chair to his left was Connor. He wondered how long Connor had been there. That chair certainly didn't _look_ comfortable.

Before George could do anything else, however, the assassin before him suddenly awoke, his eyes snapping open. The two made brief eye contact.

"You're awake."

"So it seems-" George was cut off by his own diaphragm as he burst into a short coughing fit, his dry throat scratchy and sore.

"Pardon, me, Connor. How long have I been out?"

Connor was suddenly interested in the floor. "... Five days."

"..._Oh_. Well, _that's _longer than I thought," was all George could say in response. Silence passed for a few moments.

"Have... have you been here the _entire time_?"

Again, Connor averted his gaze. That was enough of an answer for George.

"Oh, Connor. Come here."

When the assassin hesitantly moved closer, George carefully pulled him into a loose hug. Connor was silent, tense at first, but he slowly relaxed in George's arms. Connor wasn't one for physical contact, but apparently, he'd decided to make an exception for George.

"You saved my life," George said, not letting go. "Again," he added chuckling. "I don't know how I could ever repay you. After all I did to you.." He trailed off, becoming silent, releasing his friend.

"What I don't understand," George began, "Is why you'd _still_ save me even _after _all that." His eyes, attaining a glaze, he stared at the wall of the tent. It was quiet for a few moments.

"I saved you because... you're my friend. I told you before that I forgive you for what you did. You're a good man, Commander. This country could use more men like you."

"This _country,_" George replied, touched, "Could use more men like _you_, my friend."

He leveled Connor with heartfelt eyes. "I won't forget this, Connor."

"Nor I, Commander."

"Oh, for God's sake, Connor, just call me George."

Connor just stared.

"I _mean _it."

And with that, George dropped his carefully-assembled mask, and his emotions came into plain sight, eyes tearing up with a sad, but grateful smile.

Never before had Connor seen Commander Washington drop his façade. It had been obvious before that the commander always hid his feelings, so frustratingly-hard to read, and now, George was handing him his full trust. It made something tug at Connor's heartstrings.

"Alright... George."

For a moment, they stared at each other, George still smiling and Connor with his eyes. Washington was the first to break eye contact. "So, how many times was I shot? Four, I do believe?"

"That is correct," Connor replied, "You also hit your head pretty hard, but that will be fine. The bullets in your leg and side went straight through. Doctor Evangelow got the other two out."

"I knew it'd be Evangelow," George commented, smiling. "Best surgeon I know, he is."

"He says you'll be bedridden for awhile."

"I was wondering when you'd say that," the commander frowned.

"You can't walk with your leg being the way it is."

"And even if I _had_ crutches, I couldn't use them because both of my arms are useless at the moment." George sighed, clearly frustrated. "Great- just what I need in the middle of a bloody _war_- The men are probably panicked, and now the British are sending agents after me." Suddenly, he let out a short laugh. "I suppose they've finally figured out how to fight dirty."

"I'd be happy to help, Com- George," Connor offered. George flicked his eyes over to his friend, contemplating. "Well... Perhaps you could address the men for me? Announce my awakening and good health to ease their spirits."

"Of course." Connor made to stand, but stopped short of the exit. "I'll send Evangelow to check on you," He said softly, head turned to the side, "... Stay safe." Then he disappeared through the flap.

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><p>When Connor returned, the Commander was fast asleep, his wig removed, revealing thick, reddish-brown hair.<p>

It made Connor feel strange, seeing the commander like this. He was obviously seeing a very private side to his friend. He almost looked... happy.

Connor wrote the homestead, informing the villagers of his absence, lest they worry and send for him. He'd made a promise- one he intended to keep.

The sun long past the horizon, Connor tried getting some sleep, but unfortunately, it eluded him, so he took to gazing over at the other in the room.

With his wig off, the commander looked far younger than he had before, his hair tumbling past his chin and ending just below his shoulders. His face had relaxed completely, and most of his wrinkles had disappeared.

Recalling the last time Connor had seen Washington well, he remembered the day George had found out just how many casualties there had been after a recent battle. The look on his face had been one of a man with a shattered heart. The features of the commander's face had been saturated in pain, shoulders sagging with a burden the weight of the world. It wouldn't be surprising if Washington felt all the time as miserable as he had looked that day.

Finally giving up any possiblility of sleep that night, Connor resumed his spot at the commander's bedside. Hesitantly, he left a gentle peck on his forehead. "I'm here," he whispered.

"I'll always be here."

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><p><strong>Alright, I know it's really ConWashy here, and I just wanted to go ahead and say this will be a mostly (hint: mostly) friendship relationship between these two. As this story goes on, I may turn it into ConWash, or not. Just wanted to clear that up.<strong>

**Thanks for reading!**

**-Von Schweetz**


	2. An Interesting Development

**Hello again! I hope the last chapter was okay. Here is the new one. I just finished writing it, fresh off the press!- Or book, rather. I don't type these stories up as I develop them- I write them inside a blank book, and then type them. Little habit of mine. Great for spell-checking! Plus awesome to take the book with me everywhere and write whenever I get and idea. I can't exactly do that with a typed document on a flash drive.**

**The plot thickens a lot in this chapter- I guess my subconscious wanted to get straight to the point this time around. It's going to get interesting from here on out. I've begun to integrate more of actual history into this, and it's going to be chronological. This chapter takes place in 1783, the year the war ended(It will in November(I think?)), so this will be accurate, since Assassin's Creed III ended in 1782(At least I'm pretty sure. Correct me if I'm wrong). So Merry Christmas and Hanukkah, you guys! Here's your present!**

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><p>About a month later, and George was finally able to stand- albeit a little shakily.<p>

There had been no more attempts on the commander's life, and Connor was still conducting investigations. So far it seemed a "General Cornwallis" had been assigned by the king himself with assassinating Washington. Connor would have already taken care of it, but the man was practically untraceable. This man knew how to hide- and well.

So, for the time being, Connor had planned to relocate George to a safer place. The fortress was formidable, but out in the open. George's home at Mount Vernon was out of the question. Connor could only think of housing George himself back at the homestead. Some disappearance of his own was just what the commander needed right now- It was like a game of hide-and-seek.

Connor _hated _hide-and-seek.

The only qualms George had had about the whole thing were leaving his men behind and the complications of managing the war, but was rather pushed into agreement by Connor and Doctor Evangelow. For now, this "relocation" were to remain a secret. The soldiers were led to believe Washington was still recovering, and merely taking longer than usual.

-Which only bought them an extra month's time. Hopefully, that would be all they'd need. Connor had to keep the commander alive if the Patriots were going to win the war.

At least, that's what Connor kept telling himself when he asked himself why he was doing all this- beside the fact that he was helping a dear friend.

Connor stood from his seat in the living room, thoughts interrupted as he heard dragging footsteps behind him. George stood there, leaning against the wall for support, sweating profusely and short of breath. Connor took a few steps toward him, ready to catch him if he fell. George threw Connor a crooked grin, gasping in the doorframe. "I'm surprised you didn't hear me come down the stairs."

"You're not supposed to be out of bed without assistance."

"Yes, well," He replied between gasps, "I called, but recieved no response, so I took matters into my own hands- or legs, rather." He chuckled breathlessly, indicating his wobbly legs.

"Do you, ah, think you could help me over to the chair?"

Connor wrapped an arm around George, the commander's own slung over Connor's shoulders, and they bumbled painstakingly over to the nearest furniture, George practically collapsing into the armchair and managing to wheeze out a "thank you."

"Do you need some water?"

"No," **Gasp**, "I'll be fine," **Gasp**, "George waved him off. "I just," **Gasp**, "Need a minute."

After George caught his breath, he and Connor made small talk, conversing on some mundane topics, but inevitably the conversation turned to the dilemma with the British.

"That reminds me," Connor said, "I have something for you."

Out of his breast pocket, he pulled a silver ring bearing a strange insignia. It was similar to the Assassin symbol, but it had a circle in the center with a cross over it, and the underline curved up into a "u" shape, but in all, was rather simple.

"This will keep you safe. To other Assassins, it means you are under special protection, and they are not to harm you. If you run into trouble," Connor said, handing George the ring, "And there are any Assassins nearby, you'll have allies- Though I'm _hoping_ this will _prevent_ trouble."

George chuckled, slipping the ring onto his finger. "No promises." This earned him one of Connor's rare smiles.

"Do you think I could meet your friends today?" George asked, absentmindedly playing with his new ring. "As you can see, I'm up and walking."

"I'm aware, but you only made it down the stairs and into the living room. Good progress, but you're still unfit to leave the house."

"I reckon I can risk the perilous journey to the front porch, at least?"

"You're using your health as a bargaining chip."

"Anything to go outside." There was a slight pleading tone in George's voice.

The two suddenly found themselves in a staring contest, and George was losing. He was about to give up when Connor sighed in exasperation. "Fine," he relented, "But I'm helping you, and you're not leaving the porch."

"Yes, Mother," George muttered under his breath. Connor rolled his eyes.

After ten agonizingly-slow minutes, Connor helped George ease himself onto the steps in front of the house. The weather was considerably warmer now that the harsh February had melted into a gentle March, rain pouring down almost every other day. The sun was shining down today, however, smiling at the budding trees and flowers.

After a while of sitting, a few of the villagers who were passing by had dropped in, a few cracking jokes about being the "welcoming committee." A man and his wife, being staunch politicians, and firm supporters of the Patriots, had greeted George with giddy enthusiasm, shaking both of his hands at once. As soon as he winced from the pain shooting through his wounds, however, Connor stepped forward and handled it, letting out a sound akin to a growl.

"Overprotective much, Connor?" Geroge laughed after they'd run off, rubbing his sore arms.

"They were going to pull your arms out of their sockets."

"I assure you, they were not." Connor sat down next to George on the step.

"...But thank you, all the same," George mumbled.

As the wind picked up a bit, he asked, "Wait.. Aren't you worried they'll run off and tell someone I'm here?"

"No. I trust them. They know not to mess with Assassin business."

"I'll take your word-" Something caught George's attention. There was a queer, golden glow emanating from a small sack on Connor's person.

"C- Connor.." George asked, a bit wary, "Is that what I think it is?"

"I'm getting rid of it today."

"I hope so," George said, still a little unconvinced as he inched away slowly. He knew it was for everyone's good if that thing were locked away. He'd seen firsthand what it could do to even the most honest and pure-intentioned men- including himself, and he certainly didn't wish to become the monstrous tyrant he'd wtnessed in those horrific visions.

"I'm putting it-"

Suddenly, the Piece of Eden began glowing intensely, bright enough to outshine the sun.

"Why's it doing that?"

"I don't know."

The flashes of light were pulsating now. neither of them had moved when a tendril of light snapped forward and sucked into George's chest like a vacuum. The rest of the Apple followed in a matter of seconds, absorbing into the skin like water.

"Commander!"

Connor shot forward and caught his friend as he slumped forward, about to fall. George raised a hand to the burnt hole in his shirt, just over his heart. Pulsating lines marked the spot in his chest, branching out in the same design the Apple had.

He _slowly_ turned his gaze up to meet Connor's. "Oh.. my.. god. Well, this is an interesting development."

"Yes."

Both George and Connor started as a holographic woman appeared before them, the surroundings melting into a golden-black hue.

"We have met before," Connor stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes. I am here today, however, because of your friend. To deliver a message."

"Are you the one who did this?" George queried, indicating his chest.

"That is not so. That orb was a piece of ancient technology crafted by my people, a precursor race of immense power. Most who choose to take it are destroyed. Only those who descend from my people are able to properly wield it."

"However," she stated, "There is an exception. In this instance, you have not chosen the Piece, but the Piece has chosen _you_. Because of this, it shall not harm you, but preserve you."

"It... It chose me? But-but why?"

"It sensed your essence- Your people refer to them as souls- , and deemed it pure- worthy to wield it power with an uncorrupt grasp."

But- the vision- I saw what would happen to me."

"The Piece was testing you. The vision you saw was an omen of what would come should you take the Piece without its consent. Only those who are capable of resisting the power of the Piece shall be granted it."

"So... it's inside me now?"

"It is a part of you until your day of death. It shall preserve your life and youth until you willingly desire to leave this world behind. You," she said, spreading her arms, "Are immortal."

Well, that was a blunt way of putting it. George felt his chest, rubbing the spot where the Apple had entered. "So.. What do I do?"

"You have been chosen by the Piece to be the Guardian of this realm," she said. "This was decided long before you were born- it is fate. It is up to you how you choose to command your power to protect Earth. But remember this, Guardian," she warned, "The power bestowed upon you can be a righteous one, or a cataclysmic one. The world itself is at your mercy, and if misused, could be the end of all things. Handle it with care, Guardian."

And she disappeared abruptly before any more questions could be asked.

"'Guardian of the realm?'" George asked to open air.

Suddenly, he felt a pressure in his chest. It was not painful, but it sent a wave of panic through his head, and a tingling sensation everywhere else. "C- Connor.." It came out a stutter.

The tingling sensation morphed into a widespread warmth, and George could feel it cycle in his veins as his hair became a richer color, and all signs of aging disappeared altogether. He stood, his leg suddenly not hurting at all, and he somehow grew a startling 5 inches taller. All blemishes on his skin dissipated- except the scars, oddly.

George inspected the changes to his appearance, in disbelief.

"How do you you feel?" Connor asked.

"Taller," he replied, a slightly-surprised expression written on his face, "Definitely younger- I'm not sure if I should be happy or not."

Connor said nothing, not sure how to respond.

"Honestly," George said with a toothy grin, "I'm just annoyed that my shirt got ruined."

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><p><strong>Ah, the plot twist! So in this chapter, George is more comfortable around Connor, being more (is playful the word? At ease? Either way, he's acting more like himself). I thought that Connor mothering George was absolutely <em>hilarious. <em>He really is just like Ziio, haha.**

**And in case it wasn't clear, that was Juno who was visiting. Yeah, I figured she'd be the one dealing with that sort of stuff, and it would somehow fit into her whole "take over the world" scheme. About the "Guardian" thing, I'm not sure where to go with that yet. **

**So this is where I've hit a sort of fork in the path. I'm not sure where to take the story, so it may be a while before I update again. (Don't let that discourage you- An idea will probably come to me pretty quickly) If that happens, please don't give up! It also may be because I don't have internet for awhile- This is quite likely. I'd just like for you to give me a chance and bear with me.**

**(Update: I figured out how to put in the line breaks. Finally. Stupid Doc Manager wouldn't accept underscores. )**

**I hope this chapter was to your liking, and as always, feel free to review!**

**Thanks for reading!**

**-Von Schweetz**


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